Having my first cold coffee of the year. Why so long since? Because we were out of chicory and cold coffee without chicory would be like Twin Peaks without Dale Cooper. Most stores around here sell a brand of chicory in an orange box, which is really good. We get ours at Puerto Rico coffee company because the place smells like what the whole world should smell like. Plus I pass this store weekly. It just wasn’t top of mind. It took the dread of 90 degree temperatures to finally remind me what’s been missing from my life: Chicory!

Our cold coffee is very strong. We use the coffee sock cold brew jar and fabric filter. Fill it up then stick it in the fridge for 12ish hours. It brews for 12 hours. Perhaps we’ve figured out why it’s so strong, Watson.

I am not picky about coffee as long as it tastes good. Even bodega coffee is forgivable after a taste of something sweet to curb the burnt bitter bites. With cold brew we find the best results come from finely ground grinds and a heaping scoop of chicory. Raj and I had a cup this morning then he left me alone here, defenseless with another 4 cups of the good stuff begging for ice and just screaming my name.

I drank it all.

It does feel strange to turn the AC on in May, but it had to be done. The men outside are very loud. For weeks our fancy neighbors have been making a racket here and there. We were warned there’d be some noise as they were having a fence put in. A fence. There are currently three massive luxury buildings going up around us.

We are no strangers to noise. A fence is nothing. One summer, I helped my dad put up fences around backyard pools. We dug a lot of holes. I remember splinters, lots of Neil Young, blisters, and eating WaWa hoagies with raspberry iced tea on our breaks. I do not remember … jackhammers. They are using jackhammers to break ground. I’m sure they have good reason but help me. For the last few weeks, they show and make a lot of noise for an hour or two then leave. Why they chose this 90+ degree day to work all day is a mystery. Our AC drowns out the noise, but I can’t stop watching them place cinder blocks, measure, dig, smoke.

I’ve been at the window most of the day when I should be working but at first it helped me concentrate. Now it’s like we’re in it together. Yeah, I’m in my air conditioned apartment sipping very strong ice cold coffee rather than breaking a sweat doing stuff, but I almost feel like my watching while bouncing and lifting weights has contributed in some meaningful, essential, what-would-they-do-without-me way. Don’t mention it.

Thinking of wonderful things in the world, I found a Misfits Famous Monsters CD. It was cracked but the moral of the story is this is a glorious album and it’s streamable on Spotify. High energy music is equalizing some of the unexpected coffee effects. Hopefully next time the fence builders look up I won’t be there waving back like a weirdo.

Bozo is in town. Streets around the Hellmouth are fittingly lined with sanitation trucks. Knowing blondie is surrounded by garbage trucks makes me almost as joyous …

as all the lovely comic books hot off the press and ready for our eyeballs.

This Saturday is Free Comic Book Day, the happiest day. Repeat: If it’s for free, it’s for me. Every year I find a few gems for my nieces. Last year, Science Comics! were a hit. This year they’ve requested stories with … capes. I tried so hard to steer them from superheroes and I failed big time. So instead of fighting it we’re making them capes to go with the reading.

This is my second round of cape-making for them. The first round didn’t turn out as I pictured them in my head. Still don’t know what I did wrong, possibly sewing them by hand in poor lighting. This time will be different because I begged my sister to sew them with her machine. She asked for the pattern like an amateur.

The pattern is just sew two capes with snaps at the collar and maybe a hood. I sew the way I bake, which is not always the best approach as it produces not always the best results, but when something does turn out it’s magical because it’s certainly not due to hard work and know-how.

In lieu of a sewing pattern, I’m busy barring the door from villains like, oh, slimy bigots in suits wielding executive orders and golf clubs. My buddies must harness their own powers, along with all the rest of us.

We took the subway to 14th street. The train smelled like stale beer and Friday’s pepperoni pizza re-discovered on the fire escape Sunday morning. I checked my bag and was relieved to discover antibacterial stuff my nieces gave me for Christmas. I put some on my hands and wiped the excess on Raj. Seconds later I realized what I’d done. We were on our way to a Life Of Agony show covered in sparkles and smelling like candy.

Many years ago we saw Mina Caputo on the street somewhere in the Lower East Side. This was before or maybe during her transition. LOA wasn’t on my radar for a long time. Anyway my boyfriend melted into a giddy 14-year-old and just opened his arms (which Mina graciously dodged), expressing his love in happy expletives. It happened again last night only this time Mina was on stage and larger than life, holding an entire ballroom of lifelong fans.

We were in the presence of greatness. All at once the crowd surged forward and around and some very enthusiastic fisty dancers broke through into their happy place. This incredible band thrilled a lot of people yesterday as they finally gave the world new album. A Place Where There’s No More Pain iseverything I didn’t know I needed.

Mina Caputo performed with such confidence and swagger. Her voice is as powerful and gripping as ever. You can argue it’s even better but why bother comparing when all that matters is that they’re making great music again and now it’s coming from a good place. After months of empty horribleness, seeing them live filled me. I felt so lucky to be there. I never thought I’d get to see them perform. Now here they are right when we need them with a brand new album.

My sisters call me The Pusher. When something is good I just want everyone in the world to read it, hear it, taste it, do it, go experience it. I’m not allowed to push things on them anymore, they say. We have different tastes, they say. Fine, I say.

Their loss. But the show’s magic bubble hasn’t popped yet and I’m feeling the urge to … push. Listen to Life Of Agony. Check out their new album over and over. Go see them and have a good time. You don’t need to be a lifelong fan to appreciate the new album. This isn’t a nostalgia trip. They still have so much to say. And if you’re ever lucky enough to see any of them on the street, please give them our thanks and love but maybe don’t try to hug them.

Like this:

I thought I saw the best license plate this morning. I was alone and doing something I haven’t done in so long on a neighborhood run – listening to music. Volbeat. We’ve traveled hundreds of miles together, me on foot and them in my ears driving me on with big theatrical sound and lyrics full of drama. I used to worship the bands I loved. Now they feel like friends. They’ve been there through every incarnation. When we’re together I’m more myself.

So basically I was running with some of my friends, my singing playing friends, when we passed this truck and had to stop for a laugh. Clear as my eyes could see the license plate said: I DEMON NYC. Only all squished together.

For a moment this made me very very happy. Some special soul used “demon” as a verb on a license plate. For a moment I lived in a city where people declare they demon. I want to demon, too, if it involves anything more than tearing up the streets and filling my lungs with the yummy taste of hot tar. Okay. I read it wrong. The plate actually said something about Demo.

The blurred world is magical. This is why I don’t ever wear my glasses. They’ve never been the same since I sat on them anyway.

On a blue sky Sunday morning I ran out to brush the snow off our car while Raj made banana pancakes and ground two of our favorite coffee beans into one smooth weekend blend. I waited five days to deal with the snow on our car because I could – alternate side parking was suspended. Also I had high hopes for a second shot at a real blizzard. Leaving the snow was like keeping the welcome mat rolled out. Then I remembered what the windshield guy said this past December.

On Christmas morning at my sister’s in Jersey, I stepped outside to find the back windshield of our car smashed. The shattered glass was still in place until a slight vibration, from some innocent angel closing one of the doors, triggered a festive shower of broken green glass into our back seat. Ours was one of several windows smashed on Christmas Eve. It took days to get it replaced and when the man finally came he gave us this big lecture on clearing snow from the glass otherwise risk the wrath of opposing temperatures when the sun hits it like a laser. His point didn’t apply to our situation (temperatures were nowhere near freezing and there was no snow). He didn’t have much to say about the guys who hang out at night in the woods behind her complex. Pretty sure they’re not roasting marshmallows. Anyway, I’ve been better about clearing our car when it snows just in case.

Okay, I’m not that much better. And the snow I intended to quickly shoo from our glass was actually sealed by a thick crust of ice. Our little scraper was no match. The funnest part was cracking the crust up like crème brûlée. Only instead of tapping deliciousness with dainty silver I punched through, feeling like one of the toughs who order their chocolate peanut butter recovery drinks with vanilla soy milk.

After pancakes we roamed. Weekend mornings are my favorite time for roaming. Sometimes there’s a fellow carrying two cups of coffee and a paper bag full of somethings you know are going to be good. He’s bringing those treats and coffee back to someone he loves or likes enough. Parents look less harried pushing strollers or watching a little one on a wooden bike with no pedals ride off on scurrying feet Flintstone style.

We roam in bright synthetics because it doesn’t feel like Sunday without going for a run. Sidewalks are my least favorite running surface, in case you’re wondering. Soon we reach the park and opt to run on the slushy trails. I’m happy for the breathing room and no piles of trash to hurdle over. Races are aplenty in the park starting around yesterday and continuing through November. They flood the park with Woo-ers and plastic cups. The best part is when runners stand around blocking the paths after they’re done.

Runners are my peeps and races are a huge source of encouragement for many. That’s great. I’m just not a fan of the ones in the local park every single weekend because they’re all so loud and messy. Oh, well. I recently discovered a new-to-me running route for most weekends. It’s much longer, race-free and spans a number of waterfront stretches.

On this final day of winter, Raj and I race each other on the home stretch. We’re nearly to the end when I hear the first bagpipes. They might be for the St. Paddy’s Day parade in our neighborhood. They might be Woo-ing me to the finish line seconds ahead. He says it’s hard to say who won. I say it’s easy: I won. I WON.

It’s tough coming home to Brooklyn in the summer, especially when the bright turquoise water along the Jersey shore is crystal clear and here the Feels Like at 7 pm is 92 degrees. Bleh. The cool thing is we don’t have to make food because it’s too hot to eat and don’t have to clean because it’s too hot to make a mess. Basically I’m a lump of sticky flesh surviving on cold coffee and my newest vegan concoction – creamy chocolate pudding with frozen blueberries. It’s good. I licked the bowl so clean my boyfriend thought it was clean and put it back in the cabinet.

My sister’s pool is seeing a lot of me this summer and, as mentioned before, I’m a little envious of her nice new mountain home. So imagine my surprise when my niece called. She wants to leave her wonderful pool and come visit me here in the city in the middle of summer. It’s not going to happen for many reasons including my broken refrigerator. This girl loves the city and thinks my apartment with its light wells, roof views and fire escape kitty is so cool.

Sometimes it is. Back in May, I began my next trip around the sun here. We used a Groupon for one of the sightseeing cruises, something I’ve never done before, and enjoyed Brooklyn and Manhattan as I like them best: from a distance. The tour guide on the boat talked more about the high rent than the city’s history or the structures we passed. He didn’t do the city justice, but the wind drowned him out anyway. It was a cool, windy day. Remember those? As you can see, hot coffee was the precious – they brewed us a fresh pot. Lady Liberty is photobombing this lovely picture of me and my sister/Mario-brother-in-a-froggie-suit lookalike. We forgive the trespass.

Posing with magical coffee again. Here I have a side mustache, very trendy now, and my hot date looks like a Bollywood movie gangsta.

It’s nice to be back in my own space. I can think straight and the water is drinkable right from the tap, which seems to be a depressingly rare treat in this region. My family and friends in NJ, NY and PA don’t seem to notice the smell and sour taste to their water. They take offense when I bring bottled, but it’s that or dehydration.

The city seems aware of its summer flaws. It knows how bad it smells, how how the crime rate spikes and how hard it is to see only concrete and buildings when so much of the country is in full bloom. In exchange it offers a library that rarely lets me down, except in the horror department, and all sorts of free outdoor cultural greatness. Before leaving, we were lucky enough to be in Brooklyn Heights and hear about the opera recital on the waterfront just a few hours before it began. It was part of Met Opera’s free Summer Recital Series, which is over now, but you can catch the free HD series in Lincoln Center come August.

Three singers performed a dozen or so arias and duets from Madame Butterfly, La Boheme and other famous operas. Much as I love going to The Met and seeing a full performance with the orchestra and elaborate costumes and sets, opera flexes its muscles outdoors, pared down to its purest.

As the sun finally dipped behind the skyline, the city fell in sync with the music so well it felt like a set. The performers waved to tourists on large sightseeing boats drifting by, seagulls glided over the river, children ran around. Rather than a curtain closing, the show ended with nightlights flicking on and those the opera left enchanted, wandering piers in search of cappuccino and pie.

Like this:

Had a very Brooklyn morning last week when I went out to move my car to the other side of the road for street sweeping. We do this once a week, but on this day the car didn’t feel like starting. Five minutes before the sweeper comes not only is the car busted, we’re about to get a ticket for not moving it. Boyfriend calls the roadside assistance insurance peeps and I’m waiting outside while drivers honk their grievances before passing. When the sweeper comes I explain and he actually says, Don’t worry about it. No ticket.

I sit in the car and read for the 10 minutes it takes the tow truck driver to arrive. The man gives the car a jump. While the car is about finished charging another ticketing person comes along. Tow truck man puts his fists on his hips and, in a thick Brooklyn accent says, I’ll stand here so they don’t bust your balls. And they didn’t. The Andrew Dice Clay of tow truck drivers saved the day.

This weekend, I ran into the city and saw the coolest 90-something gal in the whole world. She wore a giant Bernie button on her Bernie shirt and was leaving Forbidden Planet with a bag. I continued on to Strand, wondering what was in her bag. Maybe a few comic books or maybe some freaky Asian zombie movies. We’ll never know.

From Strand it was off to the library to pick up my holds (free!) then home to work on my French on Duolingo (free!) then yoga (free!). On the walk back – running with library books isn’t fun – I picked up spicy hummus at Sahadi’s and then got lost. Going from my old neighborhood to current one, both of which are basically grids, I took a wrong turn and kept going. It’s really disorienting to look around and realize you don’t know where you are or how you got there. By the time I finally got back, I was beat. Still did yoga and French, but without the enthusiasm.

We went to the Bernie rally Sunday, sort of. Gates were supposed to open at 12, but Sanders didn’t take the stage till after 4. The crowd in line around us was friendly and diverse in age, though the parts of the line we saw were mostly caucasian. We waited in line in the heat under full sun for nearly two hours then I felt gross, went home and streamed his talk online instead. I really wanted to see him speak – I changed my voter registration from Independent to Democrat so I could vote for him in the primary – but the heat is back and it is not my friend.

Last week, I thought I was on the ball. Got my taxes done a whole week early and booked our campsites for June and August. But I forgot about starting up the car every few days, got lost on my way home and stood out in the mid-day sun for over an hour (wearing a hat & sunscreen) simply because I forgot how sensitive I am to heat. Now I feel bad for busting my boyfriend’s balls every time he tries to eat a pear. How do you forget you’re allergic to pears?

I’m a sucker for any beat-the-heat tippy listicle, but none of them help. Granted our car is more than ten years old and has already earned the name Put-Put Mobile, but I’m hoping it’ll get us where we need to go in terms of finding a place to live, ideally where the sun don’t shine. Until then, I’m going nocturnal till fall.

Did you know the moon is drifting away from us at a rate of 3.78 cm a year?

Spring road trip plans are on the back burner now as we keep saying yes to projects. It’s good to have projects, but my ability to get her done is dipping. The only way to reign it in is with super mini getaways, otherwise known as nights out. In an effort to be a little less lazy about nights out this year, we’ve made a point to do at least one biggish night a month.

In March we went hog wild, planning not one but two nights out. Early in the month, we caught Megadeth and Suicidal Tendencies at Terminal 5 for my monkey’s birthday. The venue is a trek from the subway, about long enough to forget you have a destination and drift into walking just to walk mode. We were walking, walking, almost there and just about to cross the street when thunder cracks and a bolt of lighting flashes what looked like a few feet in front of the venue. It was so fast I figured I imagined it, but boyfriend saw it too and a group behind us went all giddy over it. How perfect for lighting to flash seconds before entering a Megadeth show.

Suicidal Tendencies delivered. There’s no way to overstate how good they are live. My much cooler, older punk rock sister introduced me to their music when I was a kid with pink hair and busted toes feeling bad for quitting dance. I don’t remember why, but they resonated and still do (and my toes are freshly busted). Up with the fists and middle fingers. Cyco Miko threw in all kinds of positive vibes between songs, talking about his skateboarder brother and getting back up when you’re down and not caring what others think. His command of the stage and the way the band played together so tight and yet never stopped moving made the experience of seeing them live feel like standing in the middle of a raging storm and loving it.

Megadeth sounded good but by the time they came on the heat and bright flashing lights, giant men and dancing hair were all too much. I put my hands down for a second and wound up shoved in a throbbing mosh pit. Pit survival 101: Skip. Sounds silly, but you can skip your way out of it and usually end up with a better vantage point. Near the end, I went up to the mezz and discovered the only disappointment of the night … the bathroom. Okay, in a packed venue of at least 95% dudes, I figured for once there’d be no line for the ladies’. Nope. One and only one line. Instead of a separate room for each gender, there’s just a bunch of single-person unisex stalls. How dare they.

For our second March outing we got to sit down! Hard to believe we intentionally went to Times Square twice in one month, but we did.

Steve Martin and Edie Brickell’s musical Bright Star had its Broadway opening at the Cort theatre last Thursday. We thought the 6 pm show time seemed odd, but didn’t know we were going to opening night until arriving at the theatre to red carpet and fancy people doing interviews outside. Besides loving Steve Martin, the main appeal of Bright Star is its bluegrass music.

The music, dancing and performances, particularly Carmen Cusack’s, were all fantastic. The story is meh. It follows the somewhat common structure of telling two parallel stories, one in the past and one in the present. Tom Stoppard’s play Arcadia did it best. The problem with Bright Star is the audience connects all the dots after the first few scenes and we’re just waiting for the characters to catch up. There’s no mystery in the past or genuine surprise in the present. Despite that, the show is entertaining.

The set adds a lot, too. Rather than stuffing the orchestra in a pit, here they’re staged on raised platforms to the side. The piano, bass and a few other instruments are played from a shack-like platform, which the actors spin and slide around with set changes. Details like a mountain range backdrop, sometimes purplish sky and a model train than choo-choos across a track at the beginning of each act (raised to eye-level of us balcony-sitting peasants) created a warm atmosphere. The train even blew smoke if you looked close.

Set in 1920’s and 40’s North Carolina, the story is based on a newspaper article about a baby found alive in a suitcase. We left the theatre happy, not just because Steve Martin and Edie Brickell came out at the end and played a song. It’s a sweet, charming traditional show with a few great songs and memorable numbers.

Compared to most Broadway theatres, the Cort is tiny and makes you feel like a giant. There are no columns or obstructed views and we liked our balcony seats. Oddly, the bathrooms are inside of the theatre’s house, rather than off of separate hallways once you leave the house. During the show we heard the sink running, stall doors swinging closed. Not a big deal, but quainter than expected.

What’s with my preoccupation with pubic bathrooms? Ever since getting LOCKED inside of one on my very first day of a jobby job ages ago, I’m paranoid. Some are surprisingly complicated or creepy if you overthink them, which I do. On a ferry to Block Island last summer I was washing my hands in one when a flash of color on the wall caught my eye. On closer inspection I realized it was a hole in the wall of the women’s bathroom and on the other side of that hole was a bar full of people. And way too many bars in the city get all cutesy with saloon-style double doors that hinge shut only after you align the grooves. This is not easy to do after a booze.

Those were our big nights out in March. Going out sort of tides over restlessness for now. When we do finally get in the car and go, ideally without our computers, our road trip tunes are ready to roll.

All I wanted was a Pepsi, just one Pepsi, and she wouldn’t give it to me

I ran 16.54 miles on Saturday. This was a long, long time coming. We have to party, though I’d be content to sit on the pier with a cider and plate of nachos so loaded and soggy you have to eat them with a fork. And then papusas with curtido. Food is on the brain during long runs. My honey and I fueled up with a banana and shared a chia bar along the way. Simple, small amounts of food at a time work best for me before and during a run. Afterwards I’m a calorie monster.

I’d heard that there was some race going on in Prospect Park this weekend. Another race. We had a choice for our weekend long run: agitation or a change of scenery.

We woke up early and took the subway up to 125th street then walked over to waterfront path. This put us approximately 15 miles from home. Now all we had to do was run back.

The stretch along Manhattan’s entire west side offers cool breezes off the river and turbo people-watching. It’s a little too narrow in parts, considering the bike and foot traffic. Getting out early helps. At first there’s a lot of noise and fumes from all the vehicles on the West Side Highway, but once it opens up to Riverside Park there’s a pleasant amount of distance between the path and car traffic. Though straight and flat, the path didn’t feel monotonous. Running along moving water never does.

There are also plenty of open bathrooms that don’t have people living in them, which is good to know.The water fountains are still off, also good to know.

We had to break at the USS Intrepid aircraft carrier. This ship survived five kamikaze attacks and a torpedo strike during WWII. It’s one of the many museums I forget about. Then we were running by it and I was like Wow. It looks so real. And it is real. We didn’t bring a phone so no pics, but it’s going on our To-Gos now that we remember it exists.

The southern tip of Manhattan gets crowded first with people going to the Statue of Liberty, then the Staten Island ferry then South Street Seaport then the Brooklyn Bridge. By this time we were pretty tired so rather than huff and puff past, we took a much needed walk break. My stubbed toe is still being a baby. I think my ankle overcompensated because it started wobbling. Running felt better than walking – maybe less foot surface hitting the ground? We slowed our pace and ran most of the way home.

My love for Trader Joe’s grew a bit. We stopped there to get some gf bagels, but we also helped ourselves to free coffee and my honey had a sample of gnocchi, which perked him up for the rest of the run. At this point we were tired and didn’t realize we’d grabbed a bag of bagels with a hole in it. At the checkout, this sweet woman working there pointed it out to us, ran back and got us a different pack. She easily could’ve just dropped it in a bag and not said a word and we wouldn’t have noticed until getting home 2 miles later and hungry.

The only part of this run I didn’t love was crossing over the oily Gowanus Canal, a bubbling muse for toxic monsters. Whatever is down there – probably not water – it got us sprinting.

We didn’t set a time goal and my honey didn’t balk about the walk breaks when my ankle started singing. This was my favorite run of the year so far. Most of it was a physical struggle, but mentally I was determined to finally conquer this 15-mile block. Walk breaks weren’t even a question. My only goal was to get the distance in my legs.

Junk food swam through my head throughout the run, but after all I really wanted was cold , fresh fruits and veggies. Okay, and a milkshake. Then gentle yoga. I get super stiff everywhere after runs- stiff spine, stiff shoulders, stiff hip rotators, stiff hammies. Before daily yoga, I guess I was just stiff all the time and didn’t feel the difference.

Things are good in 15+ mile land. I’m still riding the energy buzz and my whole body feels like it’s breathing more. Any minute now the running faery will give me brand new feet and they shall never touch the ground. Until it’s time to chase 18 miles.

Tuesday night we waddled from Columbus Circle up Broadway on slippery slate sidewalks in silly fancy shoes with no traction. If I’m not good in this life, I’m coming back as a ghost in heels forced to walk the city’s slick sidewalks for all eternity. Meanwhile, my hot date strutted along in those men’s looks-like-a-pump-feels-like-a-sneaker shoes.

We turned the corner and sighed the sigh of knowing we were going to enjoy the next three hours of our lives. Guaranteed. That’s what it is to go to The Metropolitan Opera. Now that they sometimes offer $25 tickets, we go more often. Our seats were two rows from the very highest back, but there are no bad views at the opera.

Though there’s love and sacrifice, macho men being dumb, the narrative’s driving force is vengeance at all costs. I skimmed Il Trovatore’s summary and went in expecting a tragic love story, but it’s much more complex. I was tempted to turn off the subtitles in front of my seat to see if the experience is better without a glowing screen, but after the first number I succumbed to the urge to know the plot.

The only thing I didn’t love was the set. It’s quartered and rotates on a massive lazy Susan-style platform, but all the greys and browns and dingy costumes make for a dreary sight. Granted, it’s a time of bloody war, but I’m a sucker for artistic sets that add something. No need to transport me to a massive wall.

On paper, the melodramatic plot front-loaded with backstory didn’t seem big enough to fill this stage. Wrong, wrong, wrong. With opera, the whole is always better than the parts. Every time Angela Meade opened her mouth I closed my eyes and forgot about the subtitles. The emotion behind whatever the lyrics are stirs and fills you. The range of their voices reminds you you’re a human capable of pure emotion, which is welcome when delivered in the form of an aria. Leonora’s first song is what yearning sounds like. Later we get fear, passion, hope, desperation, and it all lingers in you for days because everyone on stage sings their heart out.

And they’re not the only ones.

So somebody in our section joined in a few times. First I heard a faint humming and thought No. People don’t sing along with the opera. This dude did. Someone shushed him and I felt bad because he actually knew the words and didn’t sound bad, but singing along at the opera is not something I can get behind. But going is. Now that they’re making it more affordable, I hope everyone goes at least once. Those plush seats are too comfortable to be empty.

Sitting at the Lincoln Center fountain at night was something my sister and I loved to do when I first moved here. We’d get eclairs in Little Italy, grab a cappuccino around the corner and picnic/people watch from the fountain as people arrived for their shows. Surrounded by Broadway and three grand theatres, you can’t help but dream. We’d stay till after intermission when audiences would float out to the terrace, champagne in hand. Then we’d walk home, swept up in a sense of possibility.

On this night, my boyfriend and I ran into a friend on the subway who proceeded to describe a rat that walked onto his train car that morning. “I don’t want to have this conversation,” put a stop to that reunion and I retreated to the lovely voices still singing in my head. Rats be gone.